


A Stolen Season

by CerseiSassQueen



Series: The Stag King, the Rose Queen, and the She-Wolf [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, Belly Kink, Belly Rubs, But also charming and good in bed, Creampie, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dadbod, Daddy Issues, Dirty Talk, Doggy Style, F/M, Female Friendship, Joanna Snow - Freeform, Jon is smart, Jon likes being squished, Kissing, Margaery is chill, No Plot/Plotless, No fucks given I want this, OT3, Out of Character, PWP, Penis In Vagina Sex, Post-Coital Cuddling, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Pre-Threesome, Pregnancy, R Plus L Equals J, Robert Lives, Robert is still gross and a liability, Rough Sex, Royal Mistress, Rule 63, Scheming, Shameless Smut, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Westerosi Politics, f!Jon Snow - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-28
Updated: 2019-03-01
Packaged: 2019-11-06 05:05:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17933405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CerseiSassQueen/pseuds/CerseiSassQueen
Summary: 'This is not life. This is a stolen season...'Joanna loves the aftermath of their coupling, when he collapses atop her, spent and roaring, driving the air from her lungs in a rattling sigh. It might be undignified and uncomfortable, being crushed beneath the king’s substantial bulk, but she feels like the most powerful woman in the known world in this moment, although she wears no crown and never will.A smutty snapshot from a different world.F!Jon Snow/Robert BaratheonMargaery Tyrell/Robert BaratheonImplied F!Jon/Margaery/Robert.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A little background for this universe: Through the combined efforts of Ned as Hand of the King, Stannis, Varys and Renly, the truth of Cersei’s deception is revealed. Cersei and Joffrey are executed, Jaime is offered the choice of death or the Wall (because Westeros is a patriarchal shitstorm) and chooses to die with his sister. Tommen and Myrcella are saved by Ned’s intervention, keeping Tywin in check for the moment, and the two Lannister children are fostered out to other Houses to keep their grandfather from poisoning their young minds against the Crown; Tommen with the Starks and Myrcella with the Tullys.
> 
> Tyrion is named to the Small Council and his claim on Casterly Rock is secure, Varys is loyal because the Targaryen plot is dead in the water (no Aegon/Pisswater Prince, Viserys and Daenerys didn't survive their early years in Essos), Littlefinger and Pycelle are seething quietly in the background but fuck ‘um. Robert marries Margaery to bring the Tyrells into the fold and secure Mace as his bank. Along with Sansa, who is betrothed to Willas, and Arya, Ned brings his bastard daughter Joanna to court to serve as handmaiden to the Rose Queen, at Robert’s command. Of course, R+L=J but no one knows this other than Ned and Howland Reed. Robert offers to legitimise Joanna, but poor old honourable Ned refuses, not wanting to shame Catelyn and knowing that he can't reveal the truth.
> 
> Joanna has all the pride and honour of her canon persona, but a little more fire and ambition. She is the blood of the dragon and she has that wild streak of the ‘wolf’s blood’ too, like Brandon and Lyanna, and she knows that it is even harder in this world to be a bastard-born girl than it is to be a boy (again, Westeros is a patriarchal shithole). She is keenly aware of her circumstances and knows that she has to use all her wit and charm to overcome the barriers of birth status and gender, that she must do things that seem unpalatable to those closest to her, regardless of the sting to her Stark pride…
> 
> {Also, this was supposed to be complete and utter PWP smut written to scratch my own filthy itch...but I have a tendency to get swept up in plot and characterisation, soooo all the smut is coming later today in the next chapter. Apologies, feel free to skip to the good stuff...}

Joanna did not expect to have the pleasure of the king’s company tonight, not when he has spent every night for the last three moons in his wife’s bed, where he belongs, but she is not displeased by the familiar jaunty knock at her door when it comes, a little after dusk has fallen over King’s Landing and the windows of the Red Keep are aglow with dim candlelight. In truth, she had fair warning that he might make an unanticipated appearance, a gentle word from Queen Margaery alerting her to a most delicate matter that some might have argued was best discussed between husband and wife, within the sacred bonds of marriage. But who better for the queen to trust with this matter than her own handmaiden, one who also happens to have the honour of serving King Robert as his royal mistress and bed warmer?

Walking the gardens together, hand in hand, with Sansa and a flurry of pretty Tyrell cousins in attendance, fluttering and chirping like a brood of little hens, Margaery had been slow and clumsy as she and Joanna took their leave from the company, her graceful form hampered by the heavy ripeness of her belly. Her lovely face had betrayed only the slightest discomfort, a passing twinge pulling at her features as she perched upon a marble pew with a weary sigh. Joanna did not bluster or fuss about her, as the others would have, only sitting quietly at her queen’s side and placing a gentle hand upon the swell of Margaery’s stomach, “You are tired.” It was not a question, and Margaery had responded with a wan little smile, covering her dear friend’s hand with her own, “The babe does not sleep at night. I am carrying a little night owl in my womb, as well as a stag. He rolls and kicks against my ribs from the hour of the wolf until dawn…”

Joanna nodded, knowing all too well the vagaries of the unborn and the pains of carrying a child, although she has yet to experience it for herself. Still, she remembered how Lady Stark had struggled to maintain her careful poise through the last months of pregnancy, the deep aching strain of the task untempered even after birthing four healthy babes ahead of her last child, little Rickon. Motherhood is a blessing that Joanna does not dare hope for, not yet, and she is careful to drink moontea in order to prevent Robert’s seed from taking root. The shadow of a smile had brightened the northern girl’s solemn Stark features when the child stirred within Margaery’s belly, pushing against Joanna’s palm and skittering away again, the rippling motion disturbing the smooth forest-green skirts of the queen’s gown, “Aye, our prince is a lively little fellow. It will not be much longer before he graces us with his presence, if the gods are good.” Margaery had managed a pained smile, letting out a little huffing exhale of breath when the heir to the Iron Throne boots lustily at her ribcage, “If the gods are good...I have prayed to the Seven for an undisturbed night's rest, but they do not seem well-disposed to answer, as yet. Perhaps your old gods will take pity on me…” She sighs, taking Joanna’s hand, her brown doe-eyes gleaming with characteristic mischief now that the child is quiet within her womb and she can breathe again, “Of course, I might stand a better chance at sleeping through the night if my dear husband were not so...attentive…”

Robert’s marriage to the prize rose of Highgarden had been entirely political and self-serving, driven by his need for a trueborn heir and the Tyrell coffers, but Margaery had used all of her wit, charm, and beauty to endear herself to the king, to earn a place in his brash heart and bolster their union in its infancy with genuine affection. For his part, Robert has blossomed under her soothing influence, the rough edges of his nature softened by her gentle presence at his side, and by the considerable efforts of his brothers and Eddard Stark, his friend and Hand, Joanna's own father. The king still drinks and brawls, he still shouts and stomps his feet like a fat red-faced child, but his worst excesses have been tempered; he is content to keep to his wife’s bed, choosing to slake his lusts with Margaery rather than chasing kitchen wenches or emptying the royal coffers into the brothels of the capital. He is as loyal and dutiful as husband to the queen as Ned has been to his own lady wife, save for the Hand’s one indiscretion, the secret tryst that had produced Joanna Snow. How fitting that Robert now chooses to break his marriage vows with her, with Ned’s bastard daughter, while spurning all others in favour of his wife. But the queen is not Catelyn Tully, she is not Cersei Lannister; Margaery understands her husband, his follies and his failings, and she is content to allow him this one self-indulgence at her expense, secure in her position and assured of her own loveliness. She had heard the whispers, of course, long before Robert had summoned Joanna to serve at court; the king’s new fancy, the girl he had coveted from a respectable distance during his visit to Winterfell...Ned Stark’s bastard, a true northern beauty with more than a passing resemblance to his late sister, Robert’s beloved long-lost Lyanna. But clever Margaery would not allow jealousy to cloud her mind and dull her wits, and she welcomed Joanna into her retinue with open arms, finding a loyal and firm friend in the serious-eyed girl...and giving her blessing for Robert to visit Joanna’s bed, on occasion, when it became apparent that the girl was willing and his interest in her had not waned. If anything, the unspoken arrangement had strengthened their marriage, had strengthened the budding friendship between the queen and her handmaiden, and there are certain benefits that cannot be denied. Margaery's delicate condition has not dampened the king’s ardour for her, the ripeness of her form only seeming to fuel his desires as he delights in the proof of his vitality, his heir growing strong in her belly. She is pleased by his attentions, of course, but her weary body needs rest more than ever now, as she prepares for the birth of their first child...and Joanna is more than happy to oblige, to assist her queen in this matter and give Margaery some respite from the king’s nightly visits.

It does not shame Joanna to find herself in this position, stretched out upon the broad downy mattress in her bedchamber as she waits to see if the king would call upon her, bare and soft as a newborn babe in naught but her own skin. At first, the prideful strain of her northern blood had baulked at the thought of serving the Crown in such a low manner, the prospect of setting aside her youthful hopes and dreams to join a long and infamous history of royal mistresses. To think that her own name might be noted in the same breath as those whispered half-forgotten names, the ghostly figures of maligned Targaryen whores from a bygone age, set in stone alongside the squabbling bed warmers of Aegon the Unworthy, and other unfortunate women. But she had not challenged her fate, nor mourned her losses with excess grief...for in truth, what choice did she have? What better future might she hope for, if she snubbed her nose at an invitation to join the royal court, a summons from the king himself? She would never accomplish her dreams, those childish flights of fancy in which she ranged across the frozen wilds beyond the Wall with her uncle Benjen, or pledged her non-existent blade to a company of sellwords on the far side of the world, for glory and adventure. Her lineage is noble, she has a family and home, but no title and no place at her father's table. The best she could hope for, as a bastard and girl at that, would be marriage to some third or fourth born son of a lesser House, or another noble bastard perhaps, if any of Ned Stark’s bannermen would bend their stiff northern knees to accommodate their liege lord’s shameful seed.

Besides, as honourable and stoic as she is, Joanna has too much fire to go meekly into such a dim and unremarkable future, too much hidden ambition and pride to give herself over to lesser men. The wolf’s blood that had made her uncle Brandon so wild and wanton, that had sparked dragonfire in Lyanna's veins and set the Seven Kingdoms ablaze...it also swells at the core of _her_ heart, fickle and reckless, much to her poor father’s quiet dismay. She knew that Lady Catelyn would not suffer her husband’s ill gotten firstborn to stay at Winterfell, that she would conspire to send the bane of her eye away, to sell her off like some broodmare at the first opportunity, rather than see Joanna seated at Robb’s right hand when he came into his birthright. The mistress of Winterfell had wanted Joanna to go to King’s Landing with the first wave of Starks, no doubt hoping that she would catch the eye of some hedge knight or noble squire, but Ned had refused his wife’s demand, leaving his eldest girl behind with Robb, poor crippled Bran, and little Rickon. Perhaps he had been ashamed of her, unwilling to parade his bastard before the royal court, and such unbidden suspicions had wounded Joanna’s pride at the time, although she had been glad to stay with her brothers.

Still, the sour-lipped expression on Lady Catelyn’s face when the king had finally summoned Joanna had been enough to soothe the sting from her innermost wolf-heart, a wicked and wholly selfish pleasure easing the pain of leaving hearth and home for the wine-soaked viper’s pit they called a capital. She had hoped for a late reconciliation with the woman who might have been her mother, in a kinder world, but none had come, and she left her girlhood behind without a second glance, boarding ship at White Harbour with Jory Cassel and two of the queen’s own cousins as her escort on a journey into the unknown...

Banishing the past from her thoughts, Joanna strokes the flat of her hand over her body in a languid caress, cupping her breasts and teasing the delicate pink peaks between finger and thumb, her free hand tracing circles over her taut stomach as she conjures lazy images to the forefront of her mind to warm her loins. Theon Greyjoy, dark and lean and arrogant, his sinewy muscles rippling beneath the skin as he tilted into a swan dive and dove beneath the icy surface of the Acorn Water. The men in the yard, the young soldiers of Winterfell, their faces aglow with sweat and bright ruddy laughter, Jory beating Alyn back with the edge of a practise blade as Harwin cupped his hands around his mouth and called out good-natured joshing insults. _Robb_...broad shouldered and handsome, his blue eyes twinkling with mischief, his red curls tickling against Joanna’s nose as he pulled her into a bear hug and rumpled her hair...oh, sweet Robb. Her breath quickens, the hand at her stomach dipping between her hip bones, slender fingers threaded within the downy curls of her sex. There is no shame in it, no harm in these secret fantasies; sometimes she thinks of her half-brother when she spreads her thighs for her own hand, aye...and what of it? Still, whatever she might tell herself, however she might soothe herself in such moments, she tries _not_ to think of _Cersei_ , of the disgraced queen’s golden head rolling from the block, with gaping mouth and wide staring eyes, the clean wound of her neck spraying blood over the marble steps of Baelor.

A whining growl from Ghost alerts her to an encroaching presence before that familiar tap at the door comes, the great white direwolf roused from a light doze at the foot of the bed. Joanna gently shushes him, leaving the knock unanswered until the beast has ambled to his feet and padded away, slinking from the room to find an undisturbed place to doze in the adjoining chamber, the warm-hued solar where his mistress reads her letters and breaks her fast. Shifting into a comfortable and inviting position on the bed, her head supported by a heavy gold-fringed pillow and both hands occupied, she calls out in welcome, her steady voice betraying nothing of the pleasure slowly edging into her body, like warm embers in an empty hearth stoked into life by her own clever fingers, “Come in…”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smut, as promised. Enjoy!

  
“You’ve started without me.”

Joanna’s eyes are heavy with lust, gleaming silvery-grey beneath thick dark lashes and the translucent veil of their lids, a half-smile tilting at the corners of her soft lips when she hears that familiar rumbling voice from the doorway. Robert's tone is rough and deep, edged with ribald laughter, and she can picture his face when he speaks, even with her eyes closed; his bright blue eyes crinkling at the corners, his cheeks apple-red above the coarse black-grey curls of his beard, his full expressive mouth one twist away from a dazzling smile or a childish sullen scowl. Shifting on the bed, bending her knees and parting her thighs with feline indolence, Joanna hums thoughtfully and dips a finger into the pink spread of her cleft. She sighs, repressing her knowing smile when she hears Robert suck in a harsh hissing breath, the door closing behind him as he treads over to the bed with heavy careless steps, “Oh? I didn't realise I was waiting upon your Grace’s pleasure tonight. The needs of my body are subject to no man’s whim...not even yours, my liege.”

Robert does laugh now, a booming burst of genuine good cheer resounding over Joanna’s head, “Saucy…” The sound of his laughter never fails to set her limbs to trembling, the lean muscles of her thighs tensing and rippling with tight spasms, as though she has spent all day in the saddle and must now suffer for her exertions. There is a sudden clash of silver and iron against smooth marble as the king discards his belt, and Joanna opens her eyes to watch, the simmering heat in her dove-grey gaze giving the lie to the solemn lines of her long northern face. The hand between her legs does not hesitate in its teasing motions, bold fingers tracing the soft puffy seam of her sex as she reaches out with its twin to catch Robert’s wrist, “The queen is resting?” He pauses in the act of opening his black brocade doublet, thick fingers struggling with the gold stag-head fastenings, and blesses her with an almost boyish smile, “Aye, no need to worry your pretty head, little mother hen. I left her as warm and snug as a dormouse, tucked up abed with the babe wriggling in her belly...trying to fight his way out before his time, little sod…” His fingers return to their task, teeth clenched behind his firmly pressed lips in grim determination as the last hook clings stubbornly to its eye, the set of his jaw giving him more than a passing resemblance to Stannis, although Joanna would never draw his attention to the comparison. Instead, she forgoes her own pleasure for the moment and shifts on to her knees before him as he stands beside the bed, gently patting his hands away and working the catch open with practised ease, “Will you be disappointed if the child is a girl? A daughter, rather than a son?”

Robert does not answer for a long moment, watching as she opens his doublet to reveal the plain tunic beneath, and then he shakes his head, his great shoulders rising and falling in a casual shrug, “Then I'll have another daughter, a trueborn girl at last, and the realm will have its rightful princess. Gods be good, I'll have both, a whole litter of ‘em, boys and girls aplenty. My seed is strong, my lady wife is fertile and the Tyrell stock breeds them well...” There is no lie in his voice, in the deep-set glint of his eyes, and Joanna takes his hand in hers and raises it to her lips, brushing her mouth over his heavy beringed knuckles in a warm kiss. It is silly, but she feels almost grateful for his answer, on behalf of Margaery’s unborn babe and the sad unwanted child she herself had once been, growing up in Winterfell as a bastard whelp. Robert chuckles, mussing her hair with his free hand, his fingers curling into her loose dark brown locks, “Tender little thing…” She tilts her face, nipping playfully at his hand like an errant pup when his strong calloused fingers cup around her jaw to give her head a teasing shake. Pulling away, he sheds the doublet like a second skin, dragging his tunic over his head and unlacing his breeches, baring himself for her wolf-hungry gaze as she flops back against the pillows. The embers of her arousal flare to life, surging and burning through her loins like wildfire, the bittersweet flames fanned into an inferno by the sight of her king’s exposed flesh; he is broad and tall, the solid muscles in his heavy shoulders bunching and flexing under pale battle-scarred skin, and she can see the shadow of the young rebel he had once been, the power in his frame and bearing. But her eyes are drawn elsewhere, as they had been from the very first time he had staked his claim on her maidenhead...to the immense swell of his gut, a mighty slab of flesh hiding the once well-defined and sculpted muscles, his belly overhanging his cock, the skin taut and rippling, drawn as tight as a drum and lightly dusted with black hair. He looks as heavy with child as his wife, in truth...and Joanna _loves_ it, desires him all the more for it, her cunt fluttering with deep aching spasms, the sudden rush of heat to her loins forcing her thighs to clench and squeeze together of their own accord in a futile effort to spark much-needed friction between her legs. She still can't make sense of it, the strange and unexpected reaction of her body when confronted with the king’s unwieldy bulk, her arousal pooling like molten gold in a way that never fails to astound her; never before had she experienced such shameless lust, not even for Theon _(or Robb)_ , and she had been embarrassed by this odd predilection at first, but no more. She remembers Margaery’s advice, her wise words to Sansa as they walked the gardens and spoke of such matters in soft giggling whispers; _“Some women like tall men. Some like short men. Some like hairy men, some like bald men. Gentle men, rough men, ugly men, pretty men, pretty girls. Most women don’t know what they like until they’ve tried it...and, sadly, so many of us get to try so little before we’re old and grey...”_

With her queen’s words in mind, she opens her limbs for Robert, squirming like a needy kitten for his attention, and he rumbles out a wry chuckle as he kicks off his boots and joins her on the bed, the mattress dipping beneath his weight, springs squeaking as he settles between her legs, smoothing his rough-skinned palms over her parted thighs, “Gods, Jo...I'll never tire of seeing you like this, you know that? That tight little cunt of yours, pink and wet and open for me...fuck, I haven't even touched you there yet and you're already slicker than a split-peach…”

Despite her pride, Joanna wriggles like a child under his filthy praise, the heat in his eyes and the roughness of his voice. To be desired so wantonly by a king is a heady pleasure, sweeter than the finest Arbour wine...she could get drunk on him, if she gave into it, if she allowed herself to indulge in his flattery. Curling a meaty hand around her knee, he eases her leg to the side, his free hand cupping her mound, the rough pad of his thumb massaging her tender little pearl in deep circles. Her hips judder, her lower body jolting into his touch, her ass bucking up from the mattress as she hisses a curse through gritted teeth and balls her hands into fists within the rumpled bed-linens, “Fuck...oh _fuck_ , Robert...don't tease me…” He laughs at her needy whimpers, exerting a deep relentless pressure against that sensitive little bud with his thumb...and then he crooks his muscular wrist and plunges two thick fingers into the wet heat of her cunt, without warning, that maddening cocksure smirk stretching into a shit-eating grin when she screams his name. His cunning fingers piston into her core, twisting within her melting walls and working her innermost sweet spots in tandem with her pearl, his voice crooning with fond mockery, “Pretty girl...pretty filthy little thing…” His eyes are greedy, devouring her straining sweat-beaded form with each forceful stroke of his fingers, the hand at her knee moving to thread within her wild dark curls, “Ohhh, look at _you_ …” She bares her white even teeth at him in a snarling grimace of a smile, craning her neck from the pillows to lean into his petting hand, her hips humping into empty air as she fucks herself down on his fingers, “Can’t...too busy looking at you…” Her voice is a sharp whine, the shrill desperation making her savage inner-wolf cringe at her own neediness, but she can't help it. Her silvery-grey gaze is just as hot and greedy as his, loving the sight of his heavy gut pressing between her quivering knees, forcing her thighs apart with his girth as he leans over her squirming body. She needs him, needs to feel his weight crushing her down into the mattress before he ruins her with his cruel teasing fingers, “Oh gods...Robert, please…fuck me, fuck me now...I’m close, so _close_ …I want your cock, I want to cum on your cock…”

Robert is in a generous mood, it seems, his bluff ruddy features dark with lust, and his fingers slip free with in a wet rush of heat, his hands grasping around her hips and easily turning her heaving form, gently coaxing her on to all-fours, “Shhhh...I’m here, sweetling...settle down, pretty thing...I'm going to take care of you now…” Shifting on hands and knees, pressing her pink-blushed face into the pillows and wriggling her backside, Joanna lets out a muffled moan when she feels the king’s cock brushing over her folds from behind, the warm soft weight of his belly pressing against her squirming buttocks. His calloused fingertips dig into the creamy flesh of her hips, stilling her bucking motions with a firm touch, and then he covers her back with his solid bulk, mounting her, playing the rutting dog to her bitch in heat. One hand leaves her hip to curl around his shaft, lining himself up, rubbing the blunt head of his shaft against her clit and slicking himself in her melting heat, “Oh, Joanna...it has been too long since I had you like this...too fucking long…” He sinks deep, the thick pulsing girth of his cock stretching her open, her innermost muscles slowly yielding for him with that familiar burning ache, her body stiff and taut beneath him. He is right, it _has_ been too long, and it takes her a moment to adjust to his size, hot stinging tears blurring her vision as she twists at the waist to blink up at him, peering back over her shoulder in open-mouthed bliss, pleasure and pain warring on her face. The pain is fleeting, ebbing from her body like poison from a wound, until her limbs are soft and pliant, her hips rolling with languid grace to push back against him, the firm muscles of her abdomen flexing, baiting him with the tight squeeze of her cunt around his length. He is buried to the balls, hilted deep, his swollen cockhead cradled by her cervix, the neck of her womb tense and warm above his shaft, rippling with the slick promise of her arousal, “Fuck me, Robert. Make me yours again.”

He surges into her with all the force of a storm, like a stag in rut, hammering her cunt with merciless pounding strokes. Her strong young body is no match for his fury, jolted back and forth on her hands and knees, her breasts swaying, her ass bouncing down to meet his thrusts as he levers her hips between his hands. As always, he is less than eloquent now that he has her spread open beneath him, each clenching pulse of her walls around his cock stealing the words from his tongue until he can only grunt and growl in the throes of this heated reunion. Joanna is equally dumbstruck, her pupils blown wide as she is fucked down into the bed, squeaking and whimpering, pushing her face into the pillow again and drooling over its plump downy surface, the muffled sounds of her pleasure lost within a sordid cacophony of lovemaking. Robert’s loud groans, the creaking of bedsprings, the measured beat of the headboard against the wall, the obscene wet squelch of her cunt...and the rhythmic slap of flesh against flesh: her breasts swinging together, his gut belting against her ass, his balls swinging between her thighs to _thwack_ against her cunt, bashing her tingling little pearl with each feverish stroke…

 _Too long_...too fast, too hard...too much, too much to bear after three moons without his cock, her bed cold and empty, as cold and empty as her cunt...and she can feel herself coming apart already, the tense coil of her womb thrumming and dissolving in a white-hot glow, her loins melting as she pushes up from the pillow to pant out a broken song, “Close...ahhh, Robert...fuck, I’m close…” Her voice rises to a crescendo, the howl of a solitary wolf baying at the moon, her body edging towards that heady peak and tumbling over the precipice, falling into oblivion. He isn't long for it either, grunting against her ear, his hips pounding her up-turned buttocks hard enough to bruise, sweat pooling between their bodies until his heavy gut glides smoothly over her back, lubricated by their mingled perspiration. She milks him with fluttering spasms of her cunt, dragging him over the edge with her, the plush grasp of her muscles hugging around his shaft like a velvet fist until he breaks, grazing his teeth against her shoulder and bellowing her name. The sudden rush of his seed warms her core, coating her insides in short violent bursts of heat, flooding into her womb as he plugs her with his cock to seal his essence within her receptive body. His burly arms wrap around her waist, holding her close as he sinks down to curl over her body, heaving and trembling as they both descend from the intense high of their shared climax. Joanna loves the aftermath of their coupling, when he collapses atop her, spent and roaring, driving the air from her lungs in a rattling sigh. It might be undignified and uncomfortable, being crushed beneath the king’s substantial bulk, but she feels like the most powerful woman in the known world in this moment, although she wears no crown and never will. She would stay like this for as long as could, safe and warm, but her body protests against the suffocating pressure of his weight, her lungs aching, and she wriggles out from under him as best she can, struggling to move until Robert comes to his senses and rolls to the side, nestling behind her, still locked together like a pair of mating dogs, the sweat cooling on their bodies. He huffs against her shoulder, nuzzling at her damp hair, his voice hoarse and ragged, “Seven hells, I’m fucking spent.”

Joanna chuckles, her own voice raw from screaming into the pillow, and she purposefully squeezes around his softening cock, once, twice, loving the way he shudders and groans against the nape of her neck, “Enough of that, you wicked little minx, unless you want more of the same. Fuck…” He swats his hand against her ass, groaning again when the blow makes her cunt seize up around him, and then he angles his hips down, slipping free, the sudden withdrawal of his cock bringing the sticky rush of their combined essence with it. Joanna turns, wincing at the deep aching sting of her muscles, hooking her leg over Robert’s hip and favouring him with a lazy smile as she gives his beard a teasing tug, “I hope you’re going to take responsibility for the mess you've made…” He smirks at that, a meaty hand stroking against her rump, squeezing her thigh, before he reaches down between her legs to spread her creamy folds with his rough-skinned fingers, “Mmmm...I love this...can't beat the sight of a well-fucked cunt, wet and raw and dripping…” He dips the edge of his thumb into her cleft, smearing their mingled fluids over her folds and the soft inner flesh of her thigh, “It’s just a pity I can't make it stick...fill you up with my seed and let it grow...you'd look so perfect, Jo, all swollen and ripe, hot and heavy with my child in your womb. Perhaps one day...when I have my heirs by Margaery, you'll set your moontea aside and let me give you a pup…”

Joanna stiffens in his arms, pulling back from him, the dreamy sheen of her grey eyes hardening to an icy shade, “Is that what you want, Robert? To whelp more bastards into a world that hates them? You would dishonour me...shame my father and your wife...and for what? For your own pride, your own selfish desires?” Her voice is harsh, her eyes cold and dark, but she softens almost immediately, too breathless and fuck-fogged in the aftermath of pleasure to fight, the sharp lines of her face lapsing into a faint but gentle smile, “No...no, Robert…” Meeting his gaze in a steady challenge, she thinks that he might argue the point, his expression sullen and moody, the scowling pink-blotched face of a thwarted child, and she steels herself for a tantrum. But he relents, after a tense moment, dipping his brow against her shoulder and bending to her resolve with little more than a disgruntled sigh, “Aye, it’s for the best. Your father would skin me alive…” She rubs a hand over his back, the other massaging his gut, her fingers sinking into his soft flesh as she peppers warm kisses over his brow and croons soothingly against the crown of his head. But for all her tenderness, she cannot help but wallow in the bittersweet sting of his words, her thoughts turning to the ever-present void in her fractured soul; _my father wouldn't even rebuke you for it, let alone skin you alive...you are the brother he chose, as he is yours, and he loves you too dearly for that...he would keep his ire and shame for me alone, in his own sad-eyed mournful way…_

She could almost see it now, the disappointment in Ned Stark’s grey eyes if she came waddling into the Tower of the Hand with a big belly, and it hurts, it hurts to think that the disgrace would be hers alone, hers to bear in silence, with the weight of her father’s judgement as heavy and inescapable as a millstone around her neck. But she knows her own worth, she knows that she is strong and beautiful and brave, even if she must live out her days as the shameful reminder of an honourable man’s weakness, his one mistake. There is more to Joanna Snow than Ned Stark’s shame, her pride restored by her own resilience, and by Robert’s desire, in part; the king wants to make a baby with _her_ , wants to bring new life into the world from _her_ womb, a child that is half-him and half- _her_...and that must count for something. Perhaps it is only because he loves the ghost of Lyanna in her features, in the dark glory of her hair and her solemn grey-eyed Stark face...but he has never once spoken of her aunt in Joanna’s presence, he has never called her by that name, never cried out for his lost love by mistake during the hazy throes of pleasure.

_Only me. Only Jo. Joanna._

She blinks, surprised by the warm spill of tears filling her vision and wetting her cheeks, and she buries her face against Robert’s greying hair to hide the damp pink hue of her skin. If he feels it, the way her body shudders and quakes as she fights not to cry, he does not betray her, holding her close and murmuring sweet silly words to placate her...and then, with a quiet creak, the door opens, a pretty face peeking into the room, wide brown eyes twinkling mischievously in the dim candlelight, “I can't sleep without my husband...is there room for one more in your bed, my sweet Joanna?” Ghost whines from the adjoining chamber, his red-pink gaze glowing like twin pinpricks of light as he scents out their second visitor of the night, but his mistress soothes him with a word, pulling away from Robert and wiping her eyes with the back of her hand as Margaery slips into the room, “Always, your Grace.”

The queen smiles, the sight warming Joanna from the soles of her bare feet to the crown of her hair...and then they are three (four, including the ever-present wriggling bundle in Margaery’s belly), curled together in a soft tangle of limbs until the rosy fingers of dawn stretch over the city to draw them apart again. This is summer, this is a stolen season, and winter is coming, but Joanna will hold the warmth of this memory in her body for all seasons to come, and she will weather the snow and the Long Night with steel in her spine and love in her wild wolf-heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may write more for this, if I have time and there is sufficient interest. 
> 
> And yes, I stole Margaery's speech from S3 Ep7, because it's epic.

**Author's Note:**

> Title and quote taken from 'Shakespeare in Love.'
> 
> I am a huge Lannister fan, so it was hard for me to kick them to the curb. I'm also fond of Ned and Cat, so any bashing of them is not personal, but in keeping with Joanna's thoughts and feelings in this universe.


End file.
